


We Were Never Tragedies

by RavensThorn



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: 1848 revolution, All the Amis are ghosts, Angst, Barricades, Bittersweet Ending, Death, F/M, Les Amis de l'ABC - Freeform, Original Character(s), The only 'real' characters are Marius and Cosette, it's complicated - Freeform, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-15
Updated: 2014-05-15
Packaged: 2018-01-24 21:43:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1618082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RavensThorn/pseuds/RavensThorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on a post found on Tumblr:</p><p> <i>“I believe that Marius will survive. I can see him, middle aged and angry – so angry. The moment the barricades arise in 1848, I can see him picking up a cane sword and a rifle, telling Cosette to hold their son and daughter back, and he tears into the streets. In honour of his friends who would have done the same, if not for 1832.”</i></p><p> But Marius is not alone, not really. The phantom shadows that dog his every waking step do not desert him now, even in this place of blood and splinters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Were Never Tragedies

**Author's Note:**

> This is very short and sweet, but I read the above post while scrolling through Tumblr and the idea would not let me go.
> 
> Also: The italicized quote towards the start is taken directly from the book, and it's Éponine who says it. (Just in case anybody hasn't read the Brick).

The sun is beginning it’s descent in the sky when the first echoes of gunpowder explosions reach the Pontmercy’s front garden. Cosette cannot contain her cry of fear as Marius bolts to his feet. The instinct in him to fight, to defend, to aim and shoot is not yet dead to him, just as the scars of 1832 have still not faded from his skin.

A ragged street urchin storms down the lane, whooping and hollering, and Marius lunges forward to catch his wrist as he passes the gate.

“What is happening?”

“There’s fighting in the streets, M'sieur! A barricade in Rue Soufflot!” Marius’s grip goes limp and he drops the boy’s hand in surprise. The street urchin continues on his way, unaware of the man left behind him, head bowed against the throes of the past.

_“Monsieur Marius, your friends are waiting for you at the barricade in the rue de la Chanvrerie!”_

When Marius finally lifts his head again, he finds his wife looking at him aghast, tears shimmering although he is already condemned. Cosette and Marius stare at each other for a long while, silent and still, and they both know in their hearts that there is no choice of action. Marius pledged himself to the barricade, and it is to the barricades he will always go. The wind blows and he can hear the cries and laughter of his children playing in the back garden, and his decision falters for a brief moment. But in their merriment he can still hear Gavroche’s gleeful shouts, and he cannot bring himself to regret what he will do.

Cosette simply watches him with sadness in her gaze as he takes his rifle from the cabinet and his cockade from the drawer. She kisses him once and embraces him tightly, her sweet voice ringing in his ears as he tears into the streets.

“Come back to me.”

He fits in with the barricade fighters better than he did last time. He is no longer the eager boy he was in 1832, and he bears the scarred expression of a veteran of war. Nobody questions the volunteer who joins their numbers with the flames of rage in his eyes; they simply clap him on the shoulder and push him to the front. Marius stands alone, his fists white against the cool metal of his rifle as he waits for the fighting to begin again.

But he is not alone, not really. The phantom shadows that dog his every waking step do not desert him now, even in this place of blood and splinters. Because it’s Enjolras’s arm holding Marius’s rifle to the sky, and it’s Grantaire’s voice that screams “Vive la Republique!” with his own lungs. When he swings to push a national guard back its Bahorel’s strength that clenches his muscles.

He catches a glimpse of Feuilly’s easy smile in a man handing out cartridges, a flash of a bald head that could only be Bossuet’s in the crowd. The boy next to him laughs like Jehan, the barricade’s appointed medic frets like Joly and the two men passing out weapons and jesting together morph into Courfeyrac and Combeferre before his very eyes.

Les Amis rise with voices ringing and Marius fights with all the fury of a survivor, of a man who watched his friend’s sacrifice themselves for a doomed rebellion. He aches for victory like a blind man for the sun; he tastes it in his mouth like sweat and blood. He will not fail them this time.

It isn’t until the fighting is finished, when the National Guard have laid down their weapons, when they have risen and the earth is free that Marius feels a slight pressure on his shoulder. Standing on the rise of the last barricade with tears in his eyes, he turns to find Enjolras clasping his shoulder with a grin that makes Marius’s heart throb with fresh grief. The rest of Les Amis mass behind him – Grantaire’s hand still grasped in Enjolras’s – offering wordless gratitude’s and expressions of pure elation that they did not die in vain. The future shines in their transparent eyes and the new world they fell for is already etching itself like ink in their flushed faces. Marius finds that he can do nothing but choke out a tearful; “Thank you” and the phantom faces disappear into the light of the morning sun for the last time.

And he is alone once more.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is taken from the poem "We Were Emergencies" by Buddy Wakefield


End file.
